


The Most Delicious Combination

by Animalceramics



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Charles is horny and confused, Inappropriate Humor, It get's a bit dark but not too bad, M/M, Masturbation, POV Charles, Power Play, Sexual Frustration, This gets kind of kinky, Violence, and generally EXTRA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:33:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Animalceramics/pseuds/Animalceramics
Summary: 'Somebody on the internet created a mock-up of the drivers as girls, and Charles, hardly needing the visual confirmation of his own gender transcendent fuckability, scrolled onwards, nonplussed.But then, some days later, he’d seen that meme of female-Charles alongside Dilara (Verstappen’s girlfriend, apparently), and well, it lingers...'A story of Charles being sexually frustrated, trying to scratch the itch, failing and then finally rocking up on Max's doorstep determined to do something about it.(Spoiler alert: Not in a nice romantic way)
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Max Verstappen/Dilara Sanlik
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	1. Je ne sais fucking quoi

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired obviously by the Photoshop of girl-Charles and our collective, 'WTF she looks just like Max's girlfriend!'

Somebody on the internet created a mock-up of the drivers as girls, and Charles, hardly needing the visual confirmation of his own gender transcendent fuckability, scrolled onwards, nonplussed.

But then, some days later, he’d seen that meme of female-Charles alongside Dilara (Verstappen’s girlfriend, apparently), and well, it lingers.

Curious and never really one to resist his trashier impulses - as his wardrobe can attest - Charles returns again and again to the picture, just to stare and think thrilling thoughts. There’s something about it that manages to excite and disgust him at the same time - as if that isn’t just the most delicious combination.

Curious now, he looks up Max and Dilara’s Instas, eyes narrowing and lip curling in an ugly sneer, as he drinks down picture after picture of their sickeningly sanguine uncandid ‘candids’ until he’s gagging on the bitter taste. But then there’s the meme again and - what the fuck? - he's hard as hell.

Days pass: Wanking and then fucking doesn’t help, at all, makes it worse if anything. Throwing a dismissive glance at Charlotte asleep beside him, he rather considers any impulse to fuck his female self a moot point. Done and done, and then done again to make sure. 

So now what? Is that it? What is he chasing?

Over the next couple of weeks, again and again, he finds himself, phone in one hand, dick in the other, and it’s so good, feels so illicit, so exciting, chasing the high. Until it’s not, until he reaches it, opens his eyes, catches sight of the picture again, and it’s just never quite resolved.

Sighing deeply, with tonight’s recently ejaculated sad spunk barely cold and congealed, his photogenic dimples notable only by their absence atop his flushed cheeks, he reaches for a tissue. Despondent, he whispers, “_Oh, Charles!_” as he wipes, teeth gritted with the bite he puts into the ugly English pronunciation of his name he uses exclusively to berate himself. Balling the tissue up, he flings it away in disgust, rolling over, the half-hearted clean up abandoned. Fuck it, he thinks, you can afford new sheets every day, CH-ar-LES.

That introspective and melodramatic side of himself might liken this pre and post-orgasmic ‘je ne sais fucking quoi’ to the difference in how the Carbon tastes on the second step compared to the first; A coarse bouquet of jealousy, followed by pretentious notes of frustration, all washed down with a unobtainable desire that’s cloying and corked as fuck.

Why is he like this?

-

A month later and he looks dreadful; Pale, tired and sickly. More importantly his track performance is suffering. He’s catching the mechanics shooting each other worried looks over his head, like he’s the fucking liability in this clown outfit, Christ!

Several weeks of unrefreshing sleep, a general mood of depression and a DNF later, being the shallow Monegasque bitch he is, he gives himself over once more to the therapeutic certainty of instant gratification, desperate to suppress the shit out of his Formula Medicine need to understand and self-flagellate and just have done with it. 

Throwing off the bed covers with a determined flourish, he’s naked in the air-conditioned hotel room. Reaching for his phone, he quickly finds his way back to that one picture, his favourite, from their summer USA vacation. Dilara, looking like a porcelain doll, is folded tight against Max’s body, smiling for the camera. Her delicate, petite hand is pressed against Max’s broad firm chest, making Max look huge in a way he really isn’t. 

And that’s what intrigues Charles, the contrast to the scrappy whiny Max he grew up racing, the petulant little shit hiding behind daddy. Whereas this man, he’s solid, resilient and strong, and well, the implication hits Charles right there, compelling him to reach down and squeeze his inconveniently persistent boner, fuck it.

In the picture, with her body pressed up against Max, although supplicant, she's possessive, and the thought of that ignites a burning jealousy and lust in Charles, blinding him as it twists and corrupts the image, until he sees their bodies pressed together in a different way; passionate and desperate. 

Panting now, the pace of his hand becoming frantic, he’s picturing them naked; the way Max would look pinning down those tiny arms, his broad chest heaving, face twisted, grunting and snarling. And as his orgasm begins to pool low in his gut, Dilara transforms into Charles, Max’s rough grip holding steady his pretty face, not hers, Max’s strong hand around his slim waist not hers, and fuck, he’s coming, body constricting then spasming so hard, that perfect euphoric fusion of pleasure and pain.

And at last, as he comes down, giddy and exhilarated, he can’t help but smile thinking back to the meme, the original Dilara to Charles transformation, it telling him all along what he needed to do. 


	2. La petite mort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a intervening chapter, full of Charles angst, perhaps explaining some of his motivations and behaviour here. But I accidentally kept writing in Monaco casino metaphors, so did us all a favour and binned it. Plus I think it's more fun to skip to this.  
Just know, there has been a whole season worth of Charles trying and failing to scratch that itch. The season is finally over, he's annoyed and exasperated, particularly with Max, for whatever reason (!).  
And baby, they're in his town now, it's time he did something about it, once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to spoil, but this gets somewhat dark and kinky.

He spends an hour getting ready, getting the look just right. 

He didn't know the apartment, but he knows the building, and he's here now running his hand repeatedly over ‘M. Verstappen’, engraved on a shiny brass plaque, feeling the letters and pressing the pad of his index finger hard into the sharp edges of that gilded ‘V’. 

He presses the buzzer, shifting from foot to foot, irritated by the ugly shrill sound, and then the wait, grinding his teeth before thinking better of it and savagely grinding the heel of his Amélie Pichard’s into the concrete. Eventually, quiet and disembodied but unmistakably M. Verstappen, he hears. “Hello?”

Despite not planning anything for this bit, he observes himself depress the button, hears his PR laugh, then, “Hi Max, it’s Charles,” a further canned laugh, “Charles Leclerc,” he takes a breath, puts the smile into his voice and like it’s nothing says, “Yeah, hi mate. Can I come up?”.

There’s another long pause followed by the exhilarating sound of a mechanical door unlocking. Without a moment of hesitation, enjoying the way those extra six inches make him walk, hips swaying, he strides through the foyer directly into the elevator. Removing the sunglasses, he smiles because there's a full-length mirror and it reveals **her**, a mirage of resplendent and intoxicating beauty. He’s breathless with desire for this creature, eyes lingering on sublime details; the shine of patent heels, the alluring cruelty of mink, the exquisite cut of the satin; skimming over delicate collar bones, straining against an engorged cock. Fuck. He’s pretty sure he can see his skin vibrating with the combustible carnality of it all.

Drunk in love, he staggers forward selecting the floor. His mind cycles through scenarios, all the ways this could go, the thrill of not knowing, desire and recklessness always the perfect bed-partners. He wants Max to devour him, fuck him raw; but he wants Max to reject and degrade him and even more, he wants the fight. He’s itching for it, one way or the other, his body betraying it to the mirror, face flushed, fists clenched, nostrils flared, kohl-darkened eyes wide and wild.

The mirrored doors slide apart, the object of his desire fracturing and dividing before his eyes. But he gathers up those disparate parts, all sharp chaotic edges, before taking them right to the door of Max Verstappen.

He finds it ajar, with no sign of Max, so quickly steps inside, closing it firmly behind him. There’s the sound of running water somewhere. It is quite late. Maybe Max was getting ready for bed. A shiver at the thought, Max’s bed. It’s here. He’s here. He's doing this at last.

His heels click down the hallway, eyes skirting framed race suits before pausing at an end table full of framed family portraits. His eyes seize on a photograph of Max and Jos. It’s a recent one, but it none the less transports Charles to formative years at the carting track; he and Max growing up together, competing, fighting, winning and losing. Jos all the while, a malignant shadowy figure in the background, intimidating them all, bullying Max, belittling Max. Charles realises now that Jos made Max weak then. But that’s not who he is now, not who _they_ are now. Max may be obnoxious, sometimes reckless and often angry, but he’s fast, he’s strong, he’s captivating. He’s everything Charles wants in this moment and he’s everything he needs. Turning away from the picture he thinks, “Fuck you old man. This one’s for you.”

Charles has a moment to arrange himself, a gift-wrapped delicacy, before Max comes clattering out of the bathroom, running his hands through slightly wet hair, eyes darting around, anticipating his guest. 

He stops dead in his tracks, an almost comical look of shock on his face, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Max’s eyes are darting all over Charles, taking in the lipstick, the red nails, the dress, the heels and fuck if Charles can’t feel that gaze burning his skin. 

Charles reads it all on Max’s face, can empathise entirely, after all, he knows how he looks right now. He realises then that the worst-case scenario, out of the possibilities here, would have been Max playing this off as a joke, them laughing it off like bros. But, no. Max isn’t shaking off shit, rather, he’s a starving man looking at a banquet.

Neither say anything, this whole exchange too pure and too intense for words, and _this_ is exactly what Charles has needed for months now. To feel the entire focus of Max’s attention on him, as he deserves, the complexity, wonder and threat of him, the whole world narrowing to the two of them and the potency of this moment. Max is breathing loud and heavy. A subtle glance down his body reveals that Max is definitely on the line; Charles just needs to reel him in.

Gratifying though Max’s stupefaction is, Charles is beyond desperate at this point. He takes a deep breath before slowly moving, extending his leg forward in such a way as to invite Max’s hungry eyes on a tour up his body, from the fuck-me heels, up slim stockinged legs, giving just a glimpse of garter and naked thigh. Max doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe, as Charles takes those steps closer, sauntering right into his space. 

There’s a pause while Charles waits for Max to make a move, enjoying the tension build until it’s simply too much, after months of wanting, to have Max like this, in arm’s reach, feeling his heat, seeing his arousal, knowing it’s for him. Finally, Charles reaches out a hand, wanting to place it across Max’s broad chest - just like she did in the photo - just as he’s wanted to do all this time.

But the threat of imminent contact seems to snap Max out of it, and he jolts a step backwards, out of reach, exclaiming “What.. Don’t touch me!”, his voice shrill.

Charles sighs, this was going to be even better than he thought.

Max’s eyes are fixed on the lacquered nails of Charles’s still outstretched fingers, staring in horror like they’re poisonous red vipers, liable to lash out should he look away. To Charles, it’s just the perfect sight; Max paralysed with fear and simultaneously desperate with want, erection tenting his ridiculous sleep pants obscenely. Suppressing a hysterical giggle, spiralling in his own mind, Charles blinks slowly, savouring the moment and sighing a barely audible “Max”.

Max’s body immediately shudders, as though hit by an electric shock, and in a flash of quick motion he lashes out with a hard right hook, direct to Charles’s face. The smack is so extremely loud and is accompanied by a deep grunt from Max. Despite the shock and the fucking heels, Charles manages to stay on his feet; opiates and arousal numbing the shock and pain. None the less, his head is thrown violently to the side and his ears are ringing. The laugh _is_ rolling out of him now, high pitched and grotesque, as he slowly turns back to face Max, eyes dancing, his internal monologue repeating, “YES. YES. Show me who you are now.”

Max’s expression is, if anything, more afraid, but he’s still in it, unwilling to back down, gaze holding firm until the moment his attention is caught, eyes flitting slightly down Charles’s face. In the same instant, Charles feels a warm wetness on his lip. Oh, his nose is bleeding.

Charles feels it, the blood running over his perfect cupid’s bow, balancing, pooling and then falling to his bottom lip. He flicks out his tongue to collect the droplet, pulling it back between his formerly Dior-red, now blood-red lips. 

It’s at exactly that moment he sees the dam break in Max and the paralysis lifts. He looks at Charles and says simply, “You’re fucked up”. 

“You have no idea,” Charles laughs back. More blood drops to the floor and he pinches his nose, trying to stem the flow. Max is still watching intently, his expression fascinated, curious, and Charles grins, buoyed by the attention, raising an eyebrow, “But red is my colour, no?”.

He expects a smile, maybe a “Fuck you”, but while Max does open his mouth to say something, he closes it again, gaze once more travelling the length of Charles’s body, before he whispers out a surprisingly earnest “Yeah” - neither of them sure if he means the dress or the blood.

Max follows that by quickly reaching forward, Charles dropping his own hands to facilitate whatever Max is going to do, welcoming it. A tentative finger brushes across his bloody mouth and Charles’s knees buckle at the feeling of Max’s touch - finally - and the way it’s happening too - the deviance. 

As if reading his thoughts, Max pushes his fingers firm and fast straight into the lower part of Charles nose, squashing it against his cheek.

“Fuck!” Charles exclaims because that really does hurt. He doesn’t think it’s broken but it stings like a motherfucker and he’s hissing bitterly at the pain. At that, a smile curls at Max’s mouth and Charles swallows hard, realising that Max liked that, liked hurting him.

He holds himself still, watching as Max pulls back his hand, pinching his fingers at the tacky blood drying between them, before wiping it roughly over Charles’s lips, narrowing his eyes in concentration, watching the blood and lipstick smear together.

Charles’s mind implodes at Max's behaviour. He wants to bite those fingers, suck them in his mouth, choke on them. He wants to reach forward for Max’s face, smear it back, capture his tongue, growl, whine and beg for Max to hurt him again.

But he knows now, that isn’t how he’ll get what he needs here. 

Instead he makes his eyes wide with fear, forcing a small whimper from those defiled lips. Max’s frantic hands continue running over his face, his hair, then down his neck and along the top of his chest. His fingers are exploring, disappearing under the soft dead fur of his coat seeking the thin satin straps. Max pulls the mink aside brusquely and Charles hunches his shoulders, encouraging it down and off, but also causing the neckline to gape, giving Max a flash of nipple, he hopes.

Max moves at last, stepping over the coat to circle Charles, appraising him slowly and deliberately from all angles. 

Max settles behind him and Charles is straining to hear, jumping when hands lightly brush the curve of his bottom. The touch finds the outline of his underwear, tracing along it. Charles hopes Max is visualising the very expensive French lingerie, its delicate lace so pretty, so easy to rip.

Charles’s own breathing quickens now, syncing with Max’s, as he is toyed with, held on a delicious knife edge of anticipation, waiting for whatever Max decides to do to him. 

Finally, Max presses his body flush against Charles’s back, and he sighs in satisfaction at the feeling of Max’s erection pushing into his buttocks through the satin. Charles leans back into the weight of Max’s body, grinding back into his cock. A deep, low “Fuck” is moaned hair-raisingly close to his ear. There’s stillness again until Max pulls back slightly then sinks his teeth down so hard into Charles’s shoulder that he cries out, his body instinctively trying to move away, only to be held firm by strong hands on his hips.

Heat and arousal rebounds between them until the contact is without warning withdrawn. Charles tries to turn around, but Max holds him steady once more, accompanying his painfully tightening grip with a snarl of “Fuck you”. It’s quickly followed by the rustling of clothes and then the unmistakable vulgar sound of Max jerking himself off, quick, wet and fast.

Charles closes his eyes, the room lurching once more, relishing the sound of Max’s pleasure and torment, his rough breathing, his grunts. Charles is floating so high and is so euphoric that he has no idea how much time passes before Max demands, “Get on your knees.” His body immediately and eagerly complies.

Max circles back around to face Charles, but from this angle, Charles' vision is filled with the sight of Max's dick, flushed and weeping. It almost doesn't seem real to Charles anymore. His senses are overwhelmed; The sight, the smell, the need to touch, to extend his tongue, just a taste, just a lick, just opening up to him, swallowing Max down and down, all the way, until there’s nothing of him left.

That’s what he’s chasing now -the obliteration of Max. 

He knows what Max needs to see - to believe - for that to happen. So instead of reaching out to taste or touch, he paints anguish upon his face, utterly shocked and horrified at the sight of Max Verstappen’s huge heavy cock and the threat of what it could do to poor Charles. He even lets his mouth drop open slightly, just a suggestion.

And at the look of terror he sees on Charles’s face, Max expels a satisfied huff, half a derivative laugh at Charles’s expense and half the exertion, as he ups the pace of his hand, a blur now, working himself faster and harder, almost, almost there. And Charles closes his eyes in anticipation and pleasure, just in time, as Max’s come covers his beautiful painted face. 

He hears and feels Max thud heavily to his knees and opens his eyes to conduct a quick unnoticed scrutiny of Max’s expression. Max is mesmerised, watching his own come drip down Charles’s face, looking aroused, disgusted? Both?

Then Max's hands are back on Charles's face and at the realisation of what Max is doing, mixing his come with Charles’s blood, Charles bites down on his own lip, shuddering through the climax of his own exquisite depravity. 

Max jerks away shocked, looking between the wet patch on Charles’s dress, Charles's satisfied smile, and his own dripping hand, moving it quickly away from himself in repulsion. 

Oh, and he looks like he’s going to cry.

“Get the fuck out,” he chokes.

Charles, in the moment of his greatest victory, rises to his full height, collecting the fur coat on the way. He uses it to wipe off the come and blood, then discards it at Max’s feet. 

He steps over and away from him, gliding back towards the hall.

He glances once more at the family pictures, this time finding Dilara’s face. He returns her smile with feeling, their faces mirrored a final time, knowing he’s ruined her for Max now. Max, who will lie awake hard and aching for Charles, for more, a lot more than the poor imitation in his bed. 

Charles smirks, flipping the photo face down, “Side chick bitch.”

The door slams shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I am that pretentious bitch who gave my chapter a French title. But it just fits so perfectly.  
'La petite mort' is an expression which means in modern usage, "the sensation of post orgasm as likened to death."


End file.
